Music
by Pachelbel
Summary: Relationships are hard.


Disclaimer: Characters belong to Kazuke Takahashi.

A/N: First off, this one is open to interpretation. Which means it COULD be Yaoi, or it COULD be het. Whichever you read it as.

Also, I did this without mentioning any names. Which got a little bit tricky towards the end. So, when a pronoun begins with a capital letter (Him, He, His, etc.) It's referring to a different person than when it's lower case (him, he, his, etc.) All clear? ...I hope so O.o

  
  


Music

The walls are cream colored, turning orange in the coming sunset. The blankets are green and thin, and the sheets are plain white linen. The bed itself is soft, and when I first saw it I loved it. I'd always wanted a bed just like it, and considered getting one. I changed my mind, though.

I don't like the way the room is so hot. I don't like how stuffy and warm it is; like a glove made of thistles, brushing raw over my body. I hate it. I feel sick and weighed down having his arm around my waist while he rests, panting lightly. I hate that I'm panting, too.

I feel sweat slicking my back. I saw a single bead of sweat running down his face not long ago, when he was perched over me, breathing so hard, eyes so hazy I felt lost, and I wanted to cry and run for no reason. None at all.

My clothes are scattered over the headboard; his shirt is covering the stereo. We were listening to music. On his bed. So perhaps we hadn't come to his room for music, after all.

His thumb brushes over my hip.

No, we didn't come to listen to music at all.

It sickens me now.

***

It's been three days since I last saw him. Now it's Sunday. There's no school, we're free to do as we please.

I want to drink. I don't care what I drink; be it alcohol, water, juice from a stinging nettle, it doesn't matter, because I'm restless and thirsty and drinking has always calmed me.

Come to think of it, that's how this started. Drinking. I think it was hot chocolate in the winter, but I really don't remember now. Then he said he had more drinks at home, and I followed.

You read things in books, see things in the movies, and hear things from couples. 'Sex is great!' 'Sex is beautiful!'. The thing is, they don't finish the sentence. 'Sex is great until you're done'. 'Sex is beautiful...if you like human anatomy'. Suppose I don't?

I've heard love makes it better. I wonder if that's the problem. I don't love him. And I hope he never tells me he loves me. I think, if he did, I really would kill him. I'd dig his eyes out with a spoon, and leave him to bleed to death.

I don't think he believes I'd do it.

Maybe I couldn't...but isn't that why I have a "dark"? Is it not there to do all the things I can't? You can call it balance. You can call it magic; you can even call it insanity, but the truth is, we all have a side of us over which we relinquish control.

***

It's Wednesday.

I'm watching a movie, at home, on the sofa, and he's next to me. I've become so used to how he smells that he must smell like me. I used to think he smelled so distinctive; not delicious, not disgusting, just...distinct.

He looks good today, too. New clothes, as eccentric as ever he gets. I like them; I could never wear them, because it just isn't my style in the least, but they look good anyway. Form fitting.

I lay down, placing my feet in his lap, because I know he hates it.

He smirks at me, and I smirk back. He grabs my feet and won't let them move; I oblige by fighting his control.

My legs are stronger than his arms, obviously, but I'm not out to break loose. I'm not out to hurt him, either. Somehow I end up straddling his lap.

"Comfortable?" He growls.

"Mm. Not really," I shift around a bit to make him squirm. "That's a little better."

But he's not kissing me, and I find that I really do want him to. So I squirm a bit more, brush my lips against his ear, make his breath hitch. We hesitate, lips close enough to feel breath, and then he moves just a little closer and I let him.

And it's okay, it's amazing, until his hands move under my shirt. It feels good, it really does; I don't fight it. But a part of me knows how much more I'm going to hate him when this is over.

***

I go home after and throw my clothing in the wash. Then I throw myself into the shower; it's so nice until I go home...then all I can think of are his lips on me, everywhere I don't want his lips to be.

I bite him, hard, when we're together. Once I drew blood. He thinks it's because of what we're doing. He, after all, is none too gentle with his mouth.

But I know it's because I want to hurt him.

***

He's asked me before, when I was gathering up my things to go home, if I was mad at him. And I told him I was. I couldn't tell him why, though. I have no idea why. You'd think that I'd be angry at myself...and sometimes I am. But there's only so much I can do to myself. Part of me would rather think it's his fault I'm so heavy with...with regret. Most of me would rather think that.

It makes my head ache, thinking of excuses for my feelings, excuses to stay away from him. They don't work. We have too much in common, too many of the same goals, and we work too well together to let a partnership like ours die.

***

He did it. This time, he did it.

I was lying under him, and I had my eyes closed-I always have my eyes closed-and he bit my lip so hard I yelped. Then my eyes were open, which was what he'd wanted. And our eyes met....

And I felt vulnerable. I felt robbed. Fear tore straight through, ripped me open, left me shivering and frightened and hating.

I hate him.

I hate what we do.

What we do...it's meaningless!

Why, why why why did he have to look at me? What right does he have? I am not his. He does not care about me, and I would rather see him tortured than witness that euphoric expression on his face.... He has no right to see me that way. Sex leaves you vulnerable. It's carnal, it's a basic instinct, and no one, no one should ever see me so weakened.

I went home and wandered around the apartment for nearly an hour, shaking and hitting whatever I came within reach of. I screamed. I scrubbed myself raw in the shower.

It didn't do any good.

***

A week passes and I begin to miss being with him.

So I take some liquors over to his house and end up spending the night.

***

I try to spend the day with him without sex.

After a few hours, all I get is an argument and more frustration; I could have done without either.

***

It really has been a long time since we started sharing beds. Nearly a year, in fact. I guess dysfunctional relationships need to run their course, as well.

I just wish it were over.

No, I wish it had never begun.

***

We talk on the phone. It feels so much like the way things used to be I'm actually happy talking to him.

***

I saw some lovers at the store.

I was fascinated; they held hands. They spoke softly, closely. Things I have no desire to ever do, really-I don't fancy the idea of boasting about any sort of relationship; I screwed up my family life enough as it is-but it was still such a strange and fantastical sight that I followed them around for a while.

***

I got asked out on a date. It made me laugh, but then I accepted.

Then I mentioned it to him. He became defensive, possessive even, and I wanted to kill him all over again. When my happy mood was effectively ruined, he threatened to stop sleeping with me.

I hope he follows through on that.

***

My date is....

Are there words?

It's like I've been dropped into another world. I'm not sure if I like it yet.

I had fun, though. We played tag, and He let me catch Him, and we wrestled.

Our clothes stayed on.

I refused to admit it at the time, but when His hands didn't immediately wander over my body...when we just laughed and played...when we spoke, seriously, to one another...I felt safe.

I want to do this with Him again. I want to do this forever, in fact.... And if it means I never have sex again...would it be so bad?

End

  
  


A/N: *cough* Okay. Right-o. For now, it's a one-shot, but it could be turned into longer if I get any ideas. Depends on how much the ending nags at me next week. Guesses as to who the characters are?


End file.
